


Needing/Getting

by pyrimidine



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrimidine/pseuds/pyrimidine





	Needing/Getting

Brad has this dream sometimes. It's not a nightmare, really, it's just -- he's in the Humvee, but Nate is the one at the wheel. They're driving down a straight, empty road, just the two of them, as Brad looks out his window in the same direction as his rifle. All he ever sees is sand and sky. They never stop.   
  
"Did you know LT was a smoker?" says Ray's voice, breaking through the dream like some omnipotent god or a puppetmaster, and shit, that right there is something that would be worse than Iraq.   
  
"What the fuck are you talking about, Ray," Brad asks back after a pause, and sans the question mark. The threads of his dream are still there; he contemplates waiting it out, trying to hold on to it, but then realizes that he'll be looking at desert either way so fuck it.   
  
When he opens his eyes, he sees Ray sitting on top of the Humvee, heels hanging over the passenger-side door. Trombley and Walt are identifiable only by the vague, lumpy shadows in the backseat, although Walt is snoring a little bit. Reporter is probably off whacking it to the sweet sounds of Poke's diatribes.   
  
"I'm working on my si-tu-a-tion-al a-ware-ness." Ray exaggerates the syllables. "Man, 25% watch is boring as shit. So anyway," he continues conversationally, as if Brad hasn't stuck his head inside his sleeping bag again. "I'd bet my testicles that LT is the fucking Marlboro man. Check it out."   
  
Brad waits for five seconds before poking his head back out and squinting toward the other end of their circle formation. Nate is standing in front of his own Humvee, with the map spread out on the hood. He traces something with his index finger and absentmindedly rubs his nose as he speaks to Gunny. Then he flexes his hand into a fist before tapping out some arrhythmic beat on the plastic of the left headlight.   
  
"Uh huh," Ray affirms. "He's been doing that all night. Practically chewing on his fingers and shit. I know jonesin' when I see it, dude."   
  
Brad has to admit that Ray is pretty fucking sharp, even when he's not just translating jitters and twitches out of boredom. His situational awareness doesn't need much improvement. The problem is that he uses this to his advantage and would rather embarrass people than do anything productive with it.   
  
"Do me a favor and get some sleep," Brad says as he finally climbs out of his sleeping bag. "I need a break from hearing your whiny Castrati voice, and this might be my only chance this week to get that."   
  
"Jeez, if you want to stare dreamily at the LT by yourself, you just have to say so," Ray says snippily. He swings himself into the passenger seat, feet first through the window space, and falls asleep within seconds.   
  
Brad wordlessly walks around the Humvee and settles into the driver's seat. He sits sideways and leaves the door open, one heel hooked over the edge of the vehicle and the other pressing into sand, and only looks at the lead Humvee three times.   
  
  
  
  
  
They move out towards Baghdad a couple hours later, miraculously ending up at some cigarette factory for the night. Rudy is the only person who's actively unhappy about this, because that motherfucker loves rolling around in nature, even if said nature is sand in a war-zone. Everyone else is inordinately excited about being able to sleep indoors.   
  
Still, Brad finds himself staring up at the high ceilings instead of falling asleep. Not for the first time, he starts thinking back to that complete and utter clusterfuck of a mission at Muwaffaqiyah. How he'd been hunching down to aim at an RPG team when he heard the LT's voice behind him, crisp and clear, telling Ray to maneuver off the bridge once Lilley had given him enough room ( _which is right the fuck now, Ray, go_ ).   
  
Brad hadn't turned around. He hadn't come to Iraq to turn around during a fucking firefight. He'd popped off a grenade instead.   
  
Still. He'd thought about it.   
  
Even though it feels like his eyes are going to fall out of his head, he's nowhere close to sleep so he gets up instead, grabbing his weapon, some dip, and Ray's water bottle before he starts walking with no particular destination. He passes by Reporter, who's fallen asleep sitting up against a wall while clutching a box of baby wipes, and steps over a bunch of sleeping Marines. The whole place stinks of smoke and ashes. There are cigarette butts everywhere, only about half of them actually smoked. The rest are just littered around with singe marks at the ends, probably from Marines who never quite got over the caveman fascination of lighting things on fire just for the hell of it.   
  
When he sees a fresh cloud of grey, he automatically turns the corner to follow it to the source. Someone's standing in front of what would qualify as a window if the glass hadn't been blown out. Brad feels a small wave of triumph, an instinct that reminds him of a child's, as if they're playing fucking hide-and-seek.   
  
Nate looks over his shoulder and doesn't look surprised at all. "Gunny got me the matches," he says almost apologetically, glancing down at the cigarette with something akin to guilt, like Brad's some kid who's never seen anyone smoke before.   
  
In response, Brad holds Ray's battered plastic water bottle up to his lips and spits out the last of the dip. Nate smiles wryly and takes a long drag while studying Brad the entire time, looking for all the world like some defiant teenager in a staring contest.   
  
Brad takes this as permission to step closer. "I think I see some personality leaking through, sir," he comments. "Better put it away before they stamp it out."   
  
Nate stares at him for so long that Brad becomes almost hyper-aware, trying to figure out what exactly Nate is looking at.   
  
Then Nate juts his chin out and exhales thick ribbons of smoke. He smiles briefly. "Thanks for the advice, Sergeant."   
  
They stand in silence for a while, just looking out of the hole in the wall and listening to the sounds of Baghdad. It's the same soundtrack they've been hearing for almost a month -- bursts of gunshots, yelling, the occasional thud and flash of orange. But it sounds different encased within city walls, everything echoing around and taking longer to fade. Brad closes his eyes and thinks about his place in California, how he'd have trouble sleeping sometimes when the freeway noises would flare up.   
  
Nate exhales softly. When Brad blinks and looks at him, the smoke is already dissipating. Nate tosses away the cigarette; he unsnaps his chinstrap, grabs the edge of his helmet, and lifts it off his head. Then he looks back up at Brad, tilting his head almost imperceptibly to the right.   
  
"Tell me something, Brad," he says simply.   
  
He doesn't clarify. He seems overtired, exposed, tiny granules of sand caught in his hair. His helmet in his hand, hanging loosely down by his side. The floodlights throwing shadows under his eyes, long and curving like fish-hooks.   
  
Brad pauses, feeling uncertain in a very new way, and then finally says, "I have this dream sometimes, sir."

  



End file.
